


Crush | Peter Maximoff

by EverybodyGetsHigh



Category: New X-Men: Academy X, X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: 7.9k, A physical altercation involving the reader takes place, Brief Mentions of Nudity, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, I poured my heart and soul into this and I really like how it came out, Love Confessions, consumption of alcohol, mentions of the evil dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26002210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EverybodyGetsHigh/pseuds/EverybodyGetsHigh
Summary: Falling in love with your best friend should be a dream. Right? Peter’s not so sure about that anymore.
Relationships: Peter Maximoff/Reader, Pietro Maximoff/Reader, Quicksilver/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 132





	Crush | Peter Maximoff

**Author's Note:**

> The song mentioned is Take It Back by Pink Floyd and it'd be cool if you listened to it while reading the part of the story where Peter and the reader dance to it. Well, it's more like they shuffle along to it, but you get my point.

Peter felt like his heart was going to drive a hole right through his chest. And he hated it. Of course he did.

He was practically made of pure adrenaline; his life’s a never ending marathon thanks to his super speed. But even then, his heart has never beat as fast as it did whenever he’s around you.

Falling in love with your best friend should be amazing, right? It should be easier. But Peter was starting to think it wasn’t as cracked up as it’s meant to be.

He despised the way he’d get nervous just hanging out with you in his basement – or doing literally anything with you at all. Things were simpler when his breath didn’t hitch every time you touched him. When his palms didn’t sweat so much as he sat cuddled up next you, watching some cheesy horror film.

Life was just easier when he wasn’t spending every second, minute, hour with you wondering just when you’ll realize his feelings and reject him.

Because there’s no way you’d ever like Peter back. He’s a fucking loser. He still lives in his mom’s basement _for Christ’s sake_. With no ambition or clue as to what he wants to do with his life so he just plays video games all day. Over indulging himself on Twinkies and drinking warm Cola.

You deserve someone better. But even though Peter keeps telling himself that, those goddamn bees in his stomach won’t go away. No matter how hard he tries to convince himself otherwise, Peter Maximoff is head over heels for you. His best friend.

Wandering Downtown with Peter had been fun. Traveling on foot gave you the opportunity to stick your head in every little shop to see all the goods for sale inside. Especially since you were able to sniff out the quiet stores hidden on the off roads and streets.

There were so many places you’d never even noticed before today that you and Peter had visited. You went thrift shopping and got yourself this embroidered blue jacket. And your silver haired companion managed to spot a few comic books hidden between the thick–brick novels lined on the shelves.

The two of you had also gone for coffee and cheesecake, to which you offered to pay, much to Peter’s silent discomfort.

You probably would have stayed drifting in and out of stores and down beaten roads till nightfall. Just enjoying your day off from work and the cool breeze carding through your hair. Plans were sorely spoiled though, when Peter had felt the first raindrop land on his nose.

“Shit.” You mumble, looking up at the once bright blue sky above, which has since turned into a dark gray, cloudy bummer.

The two of you were in the midst of crossing a dusty street when it had started to rain. Well, more accurately, pour. It took barely a few seconds before your clothes were glued to your skin with a sticky wetness. Skin flushed from the cold.

“Let’s head back, yeah?” Peter glanced over at you as you made it onto the sidewalk.

He never liked slowing down before; he always preferred to run everywhere he went. But over time, Peter’s found a new appreciation for seeing the world move around him at the pace of a sloth. It meant that he got to watch as the water fell onto your forehead, following an invisible trail as it curves the slope of your nose and down between your lips.

It meant that when you reached for his hand, the lingering sensation of your warm palm pressed against his lasted that much longer.

And it also meant that Peter got to milk every single second with you as much as possible. And it only made him fall harder.

“Yeah, let’s go.” You give a firm nod before stepping up to him. Your arms slip around his waist without thought, pulling him close to you as you press your cheek against the wet cotton of his tee–shirt. And Peter, once again, hates himself for the way his heart skips a beat.

But his leather covered arms come to wrap around you nevertheless; one hand holding the back of your neck while the other’s found purchase on your hip.

Then the world turns into a blur of colors.

**→**

When you’re finally set back onto your feet, you’re in the middle of your bedroom, panting breathlessly. Traveling with Peter never fails to leave you absolutely winded.

While you catch your breath, he makes a point of keeping his distance from you. He’s stood a few feet away, watching you steady yourself with the tiniest of smirks on his face. There’s a gap between you that’s barely noticeable, but to Peter, it feels like an ocean.

Once you’re stabilized, you flash your best friend a quick grin before tossing your bags onto the bed. He does the same with the single plastic one hooked into the crook of his elbow.

Water treks down your temple, reminding you of your top and jeans, which are still damp. The run had air–dried the cloth for the most part. But you’d still like to change into something more comfortable. So you wander over to your closet then, sliding the wooden doors open and cursing when they get caught on the frame.

All while Peter’s kicked off his muddy sneakers before making his way over to your bed. Figuring that he was dry enough now to lie down without ruining the fresh sheets.

“So …” He speaks up now that he’s relaxed in a more comfortable, sprawled out position. His eyes cast around the room and inspect the place as if he hasn’t already been in here a million times. “Did you have fun today?”

He hates, hates, _hates_ how awkward he feels. He’s known you since forever and yet Peter’s already second guessing if his question sounded dumb or not. Which is wrong on so many goddamn levels. _You’re his best friend_ , being stupid and nuts with you is a requirement. But he still feels so fucking nervous, and it’s killing him inside.

“Yeah, it was great! Then again, it’s not like you’re boring to be around, either.”

It’s because Peter’s such a good friend of yours – someone you had grown up with – that you didn’t think twice about hooking your fingers around the hem of your top and peeling it off your skin. Tossing the wet garment to the floor, you then began to scour your closet for a shirt to wear.

One moment Peter was idly eyeing your Mötley Crüe poster with a thoughtful hum. Then the next he almost choked on his own spit upon glancing over at you.

You’re in nothing but your bra and pants. The mirror hung against the closet door revealing more of your front as your back faces him. Instantly, he looks away. And then he finds his stare burning into you again, fingers fidgeting helplessly at his sides.

“I, uh, I sure hope not.” He had barely even remembered to answer you, and when he did, Peter felt like a giant stone’s been crammed down his throat. A definite gulp can be heard from behind you.

Without much resistance, his eyes jump from the lace of your bralette to the dip of your hips. Your dark jeans are snug against your thighs and bottom and he had noted it before – but damn you look great in those.

“You know,” you reach into the closet to retrieve the desired shirt. For what feels like an eternity, he holds his breath, glare still roaming the expanse of your bare skin. “I’m going to a party tonight at a friend’s. You should come with me, Peter.”

You pause then, spinning around to face the silver haired boy. Peter’s head snapped to the side so fast, for once he thought he might have whiplash. In an attempt to seem busy, he tries to wipe the sweat off his palms on the denim of his pants.

You wiggle your eyebrows at him, completely oblivious to the panicked expression that’s skewed his features. “You can be my date~” You pull the canary yellow tee two sizes too big for you over your head.

When you shrug off your wet jeans next, the shirt covers nearly everything important, much to Peter’s thanks and dismay. Though, all’s said and done after you slip on a pair of shorts. And Pete feels like he can breathe again now that you’re covered. Now that it’s over, he kicks himself for acting like a horny teen boy. In his defense, though, you looked really good in just your bra.

He pretends to think about your proposal for a moment, tapping his finger against his chin. “Er, I don’t know. Maybe.” Truth is, he probably wasn’t going to go.

Peter’s always been down for an adventure, but parties weren’t really his thing. Too many people crammed in one place, no space to run, it’s too hot; he wouldn’t know anyone there and you would probably know everyone. He knows how you just draw people in. With your smile, your friendly nature – he has no doubt in his mind that you walk into a room and everyone instantly knows your name.

That’s just the person you’ve always been to Peter. Someone he has to keep reminding himself deserves far, far better than him.

Despite waiting for his reply, you already know the answer. It’s always the same. “Come on, Peter – it’ll be fun!” Your lips flub out in a pout as you put on your best act; puppy dog eyes included. “I won’t leave your side the entire night.”

“I don’t need you to hold my hand.” He grumbles quietly.

With a roll of your eyes, you come closer. The mattress dips as you crawl onto the bed, the furry comforter soft beneath your palms. Peter sits up a little straighter as you near, his legs spread on either side of you. But you hadn’t given him a chance to move.

Planting your hands on his thigh, you’re on your knees before him.

“I didn’t mean it in that way. I just think it would be so much better if you came for once.”

“Hey, don’t look at me like that.” Peter drops his stare to his hands when he caught that pleading, dewy look in your eyes. It’s a trick of yours he’s never been able to hold his own against. Every time you use it on him, he goes weak in the knees.

You shrug, a knowing smirk plastered across you face. “What look?”

“You know what look. Come on, it’s not really my scene.”

“It’s not even going to be a full rager. That’s why I’m asking. Just once, will you come with me?”

When you lean closer, Peter’s heart begins to hammer outside his chest again. It’s beating so hard that there’s an ache that formed against his ribs. The thumping in his ears’ dangerous.

It’s so loud – you’re going to hear it. You can’t get any closer: _you can’t find out._

His legs tense around you, eyes darting anxiously all across your face, wondering if you can tell of the affect you’re having on him right now. You can’t find out – he won’t let you – so he does the only thing he knows that will get you to back off.

“Fine! I’ll go.”

Immediately you pull back with a smile, pumping your fist in victory. Despite the nervousness that still resides in his chest, especially now that his dumb ass agreed to go to that party with you. The excitement upon your face is infectious and Peter finds himself grinning back at you.

Once your moment of self praise is finished, you extend your pinky finger out to him in all seriousness. Pinky promises have never been taken lightly between you and Peter. Once he hooks his finger with yours, there’s no way he can get out of going tonight.

“Promise?”

Despite every part of him screaming to back out now, Peter remembers how happy you had looked when he’d finally said yes. And he can’t take that away from you no matter how much he does not want to go tonight.

So he wraps his pinky around yours, looks into those striking (e/c) eyes and states: “Promise.”

“Yes!”

Then you swing your legs over the side of the bed and haul yourself over. Breaking out into an inspired dance, all weird jerky hand movements and head bopping.

When Peter chuckles while watching you, you feel your cheeks warm but don’t stop. His laughter creates a funny feeling to bloom inside you, one he’s caused before but you’ve never paid too much attention to it. It’s akin to that of the sun’s tepid rays seeping into your skin. Or like the soft glow of firelight on a cold night.

All you know is that Peter makes you feel warm. He makes you happy, more than he’ll ever know.

The rest of the afternoon is spent chilling around your apartment. Peter and you baked a batch of fudge brownies to the record album Permanent Waves by Rush. Then in that period of time you also managed to squeeze in the Evil Dead. Where somehow and at some point – you and Peter had ended up in a very serious competition to see who could crack the most dirty jokes.

The gory screams of the main characters have become nothing but background noise by now as you erupt into another fit of laughter. Tears have long sprung in your eyes and you’re going crazy wondering how the hell Peter keeps coming up with these so fast.

You swear he probably has a book of innuendos and NSFW jokes at home because this is getting ridiculous.

“Okay, okay,” you wheeze, trying to catch your breath. The demonic entities cackle and yell on the thick–brick framed Television. “I got one. I wish you were my big toe. Then I’d bang you on every piece of furniture in my house.”

Peter only grins back at you, a spark in those black eyes of his. Leaning back on his palms, the two of you are sat on the floor of your Living Room, the pan of brownies half–eaten, and a bottle of vodka’s passed in between the two of you. You’ve only had a few sips so far, your mood perkier than usual. Which might be (most definitely is) the reason everything seems so hilarious to you two right now.

“That was good but get a load of this one. How is life like a penis? It sometimes gets hard when you least expect it.”

Again, you pair erupt into giggles. You scrunch your nose up then, shaking your head as a gummy smile stretches your cheeks until they’re sore.

“A load,” His poor choice of words is apparently what you find the most amusing right now as you flop down onto your back. Kicking your feet up out of playfulness. Peter falls down next to you, shoulders brushing but in his elated state. For once he’s not too caught up in his feelings to enjoy the moment.

He’s always worried about messing up around you – as if one day you’ll just realize what a loser he is and leave. But at least for now, he can somewhat breathe again.

You find Peter’s hand pressed up against his stomach and in an act of bravery, you intertwine his fingers with yours. He doesn’t move or rip his hand away. Instead, he gives your palm a firm squeeze, thumb absently drawing patterns against your skin.

“I think you win.”

Peter turns his head to face you then. He rolls his eyes in amusement, feeling the grin upon his face soften at the sight of you.

“Yeah, you think?” The sarcasm is evident, much to your chagrin.

“Don’t be an ass. I let you win.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.”

For a moment, there’s a stillness to the room as neither you or Peter move. Your eyes remain interlocked and there’s a longing tension between the two of you that you recognize, but Peter’s trying desperately to ignore.

The way you’re staring at him now – for a moment, he had almost convinced himself you felt the same. Because there’s a raw gentleness in your eyes, a desire there as you gaze upon him that he almost lets himself fall into.

But it can’t be real. You could never like him back, could you? He clears his throat, forcing himself to look up at the ceiling instead of at you.

One more second of that and he almost could have talked himself into thinking his love was reciprocated. One more second of that and he would have leaned in for a kiss and ruined everything.

But your hand still holds his, your flesh balmy and a comfort near his as it rests upon his tummy.

“Peter?”

He doesn’t look over at you again when you call out to him, voice silvery and gentle. There’s a hesitance to your words that’s piqued his interest, but he keeps his eyes trained on the popcorn ceiling of your apartment.

All you get in response is a thoughtful hum. But it’s enough.

Peter can feel your stare on him without having to see it for himself. Your eyes trace the curve of his jaw, the waves of his silver hair, and the dip of his lips. Once more, he grows anxious next to you, wondering every single thing you think about him.

“Do you ever think that we – that maybe there’s something between, er – that our relationship could ever be –” your ramblings of half–sentences are cut off by a violent scream coming from the movie as all the demons begin to disintegrate, their skin bubbling and hissing dramatically.

You seem to of gotten lost in thought, tongue falling limp in your mouth. Worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. Peter hadn’t a slightest clue as to what you were trying to say, but if he had even slightly similar thoughts – he would have understood, right?

Maybe it was just you who felt that way. Or maybe you were just chickening out.

“Nevermind.”

You move to sit up then, tearing your hand away from Peter’s. He almost has the nerve to reach for it again but stops himself, hand falling lifelessly back to his side.

“You sure?”

You nod. “Mhm. It was nothing. Probably just the drink talking.”

He mirrors your actions but remains sprawled on the ground. As the end credit music begins to play, he bobs his head to it. Eyes fluttering shut.

But you’ve moved to stand, stumbling out of the living room and into the kitchen. You still feel rather disheartened – a heavy weight pressing into your chest. So you make your way over to the sink to splash some water on your face to see if that would snap you out of it.

It does a little bit, yet your mind still feels like it’s in a fog, your heart racing quietly. Dabbing the excess wetness off your cheeks and forehead with an oven cloth, then you squint up at the ticking clock on the cigarette stained wall.

It’s not like you didn’t believe the time when you had read that it was already nine o'clock. But you check the sky outside the sink window just to be sure, noting that the sun’s long begun to set. The last stretch of golden light disappears behind city buildings and dimly lit homes till there’s nothing but a fair darkness all around.

“Peter?” You call into the living room. In a flash, he’s by your side, bangs falling over his forehead. His undivided attention is set on you, eyebrows raised as he waits for you to continue. “We better start getting ready for the party. We’ll have to leave soon.”

“I’m ready. Aren’t you?” You spare a glance at his signature leather jacket. He practically lives in that thing, the silver zippers and black buttons corroded with age, deep scratches in the gray material.

But you say nothing; you don’t want to make him uncomfortable. Besides, it’s not like you haven’t spent moments dreaming about what it would be like to have the warm fabric draped over your shoulders in a gesture so intimate it makes you feel all giddy inside. Looking up at Peter’s gentle smile, the thought makes your stomach flutter again.

“No, I have to go change first.”

His eyelids lower when he overtly drags his stare up and down your body until you cough and turn away. Then he shrugs and shoves his hands into his pants pockets, a puzzled look crossing his face. “Why? You look fine.”

“Thanks, Pete. But I have a reputation to uphold and boys to impress – no way am I showing up tonight in a ratty old shirt and some shorts.”

_Boys to impress_ , right, of course. There’s going to be plenty of hot young guys with good looks and money at the party tonight just waiting to swoop in and steal you away right in front of Peter. _Not that he would mind_ , though, he couldn’t tie you down forever – Or at least, that’s what he keeps trying to tell himself.

But deep down, Peter’s always known that you’ll eventually leave. Like everybody else in his sorry excuse for a life.

You hadn’t noticed when Peter’s brows had knitted together, or how his lips had pursed in a frown – you had already turned your back to him by then, dashing to your bedroom in order to get dressed for the third time today. Damn, it’s a fucking chore having a social life.

When you’re done, you come back to find Peter leant up against your refrigerator, fiddling with a pen in order to keep himself busy. His head remains lowered even as you come over and hook your elbow through his. But he straightens up and rolls the red ballpoint onto your counter before following you out the door.

This time, the two of you take your car.

**→**

You had promised not to leave his side.

Peter’s always had a knack for hiding his emotions behind a forced smile or stupid sarcastic comment. When people would ask about his dad, he got good at brushing over the sad details with a humorless chuckle. Or when he was confronted with the question of what he wanted to do with his life, Peter learned to just shake off the anxiety because he _didn’t know_ ; _he’s never known_ and come up with a bullshit answer.

And that’s what he finds himself doing now – faking it. With a brave expression plastered on, his eyes are wide, his throat aching for air in this smoke-filled room as he weaves his way through the mass of bodies. Searching for you.

He should have known that eventually the two of you would be split up. He doesn’t know if you’d ditched him intentionally – which he refuses to accept – or if you were simply caught up in the crowd of dancing college kids. All he knows is that, without you by his side, his anxiety is through the roof. And Peter just hopes his poker face is good enough to fool everyone around him.

A drunken yell calls out to him; some guy compliments his hair color, completely oblivious that it’s natural. But Peter’s not sure which direction the voice had came from, so he shrugs and moves on.

His entire body is tense, a few rounds of beer coursing through him, and Peter shoulders his way through person after person. The longer he goes without knowing where you are, if you’re safe, or just lost, the more panicked he becomes. Eventually push comes to shove, and plenty of glares are directed his way as he hustles through the Frat house.

Along the way, he’d nabbed another red solo cup half-full of some sort of liquor. If only to ease his nerves. But when he had tossed his head back and downed the ends, Peter feels like that was just another mistake on his list of many for tonight. The first being, agreeing to show up at this party.

He trips over his untied laces, stumbles a little, eyes darting about the room constantly despite the fact that the edges of his sight have begun to blur. _Where are you?_ You wouldn’t leave him here; you’re not that kind of person. So where did you go and how the fuck is he going to find you before his heart explodes?

The world spins and then it freezes, his breath catching in his throat.

Peter’s finally found you and now he really wishes he hadn’t. You’re pressed up against some guy who’s clad in a maroon frat polo and too tight jeans. The two of you are dancing away to _Wham!_ The guy’s fingers kneading into the flesh of your hips, brushing ever so slightly beneath the top of your shirt.

Peter feels like he’s going to throw up. He needs to leave. To go. To get away as far from here as possible and never look back. He knew, he knew, _he knew_ there was always going to be some chance you were going to get it on with someone else tonight. But now that it’s happening, he can’t take it.

So he runs away like a coward.

Roy was an alright guy. A good friend of the host of the party, but you really weren’t looking for a mindless fuck and go tonight. You had been in the middle of searching for Peter when the blond jock had latched onto your wrist and pulled you onto the dance floor. Now you were just desperately looking for a way out.

Your hands come up to his chest, about ready to push him away when you’d caught a glimpse of Peter out of the corner of your eye. Great – he’ll save you! Or, you had originally thought, till you noticed the look in those black eyes and the gut wrenching heartbreak there.

“Peter?” You weakly call out, staggering out of Roy’s arms. Who gave you a weird glance but you could care less. Because Peter’s already taken off, gone before his cup could hit the floor. Through all the booze and dancing you wonder if anyone had noticed your best friend’s unnatural speed, but everyone’s still mindlessly drumming on.

You’re chasing after him in an instant, fully knowing that he’s probably two streets away by now. But you don’t care, you hated the way he had glared at you right then; shoulders trembling, eyes scrunched. Whatever you’ve done wrong, you need to make things right.

You make it about two steps away before a rough grip latches onto your wrist, tugging you backwards. “What the hell?” Rage flares within you when you whirl around onto Roy, snapping harshly at the blond.

“Look (Y/n), whoever that was is clearly not worth your time. So why don’t you stick around a little longer, dance with me some more.”

His words didn’t even need to register in your mind for your temper to explode. But once they had, your fury was immense.

“Fuck you, Roy. You’re the one who’s clearly not worth my time.”

You go to rip your arm from his hold, desperate to hunt down Peter and make sure he’s okay – not like you wanted to be around this prick any longer, either though. But Roy’s hand clenches painfully tight around yours, yanking you even closer to him.

“No need to be such a bitch. You should apologize.” His words are slurred, they have been all night. You’re pretty sure he was already wasted when he’d shown up for the party.

You can’t even believe this guy. In fact, you laughed right in his face. But that clearly wasn’t going to do you any favors, and before you know it, a flash of pain courses through your spine. Roy’s fingernails dig into the exposed flesh of your shoulders, shirt disheveled and body slammed into the nearest wall.

Tears spring in your eyes and god, how you wish Peter was here. He’d have this drunk bastard flat on his ass by now.

“Roy, that’s not fucking cool!” A voice had hollered from the crowd. Through the pounding in your skull, although the thumping music is still head-splitting, the people around you have fallen uncharacteristically quiet. Having watched the entire altercation take place.

Then, just when you thought the pressure on your shoulders was going to break something; Roy’s yanked off of you. It’s the host of the party, Daniel, and he’s slung the blond into the arms of a few other members of their frat. He seems like he’s trying to keep calm right now as he tells his boys to take Roy outside to cool off. Voice icy, which leaves no room for argument.

By now water treks down your cheeks, and as dozens of eyes study you through the smoky haze of the room you’re quick to wipe the wetness away. Sniffling when Danny offers you a sympathetic smile.

“Fuck you!” You compose yourself enough to yell at your attacker’s back, but as the noise of the party picks up again, you doubt he heard. Much to your disappointment.

“Are you alright?”

You don’t have it in you to answer him. Of course you’re not fucking alright. One more second of that and you could have been the new wallpaper. But Danny seems to understand when you dip your head low and wind your arms around yourself.

“Come on, I’ll take you home.”

You nod. Wishing it was Peter here to comfort you instead.

**→**

Even now that you’re back in your small apartment, your hands still haven’t stopped shaking. There are bruises on your wrist shaped like fingerprints and every time you gaze upon them, your stomach churns and heart spasms.

That was _scary_. And the waterworks have turned on once again.

“Hello?” This is your third time calling. The first two tries had gone unanswered but you _needed_ Peter right now. You’d call all night if you had to.

You’re sat slumped on the checkered kitchen tile, the large mobile phone clutched to your ear as you bite back another sob. For a moment, you have to clamp your hand over your mouth to hide the sound of your crying. And the voice inquires again: “Hello? Who’s there?”

“Hey, uh,” You wipe the back of your wrist against your nose, sniffling quietly. “Is Peter there?”

There’s a long pause. “(Y/n)? Is that you?”

“Yeah, uhm, it’s me.”

“It’s late, (Y/n).”

“I, I –“ You hate how your voice breaks then. Everything about you seems so brittle right now, but you can’t help the way your lips tremble, or how you can’t seem to stop crying. “I know. I just, I really need to talk to him.”

You don’t know if she could hear your tears or was just too exhausted to argue. Either way, Ms Maximoff sets the dial phone on hold before heading to the edge of the basement steps. There’s a pale blue glow peering into the darkness and the older woman can hear the Television’s hushed voices.

“Peter?” She quietly calls down the steps, not willing to wake up her sleeping daughter in the other room for this.

It remains quiet for a few seconds before her son appears at the base of the stairs, hair disheveled and eyes down cast. His body is highlighted by the flashing TV lights, a scowl still lingering on his lips. But his mother just assumes it’s because he’s tired.

“Come upstairs. (Y/n)’s on the phone for you.”

He hesitates then, turning his head to look the other way. In an act that’s almost subconscious, his arms wrap around himself defensively, tone unnaturally distant. “Tell her I’m passed out already.”

Peter’s mother narrows her eyes at him then, hands finding a placement on her hips when she’d rocked her weight onto one side. He looks a bit sheepish at that, hand carding through his bangs.

He releases a frustrated sigh. “Okay, tell her I’m out with friends then.”

She shakes her head at her son, glowering down at the boy. You’d think she would have taught him better than to just avoid his problems. But as a parent, you can only do so much.

“Peter,” Ms Maximoff’s voice softens then, hard exterior slipping, which immediately catches the other’s attention. Peter feels a familiar anxiety creep through him. “She sounds really upset. She needs you.”

He hates himself for it, but that’s all he needed to hear to dash up those steps. He finds himself in the living room after less than a millisecond. His foot taps nervously on the plush carpet as he takes the phone off hold, moving to press it against his ear.

“(Y/n)?”

You gasp in relief at the sound of his voice, tightening your grip on the phone until there’s soreness to your fingers.

“P – Peter I know you’re pissed at me, and, and I’m sure it’s well deserved. But _please come over_. I can’t be alone right now.”

His mouth falls open, ready to reassure you that he’s not mad at you. He could never be mad at you. But he falters, deciding that it would be better to do it in person. “Hold on, okay? I’ll be right over.”

And Peter kept his promise, knocking a fist against your apartment door a short while later. You scramble to your feet in an instant, home-phone clattering to the floor but you couldn’t care less right now. You swing open the door with your heart pounding painfully. The moment he steps into view, your body collides against his. Tugging him to you and burying your face into his chest.

He moves in sync alongside your frantic movements, stumbling inside. Peter’s hold on you is as fierce as yours is on him, hand coming to cradle the back of your head while his arm moves to your waist to cement your body to his own. Then the floodgates burst, and the river roared in.

He refuses to move as you bawl out all your fears from the events of tonight, hands fisted into the fabric of his t-shirt. Peter hadn’t even made time to slip on his jacket or change from his gray sweats. The moment he’d heard you on the phone, he’d dropped everything to run to your side.

It’s not until your whimpering subsides that he gathers you up in his arms and lowers you to the ground. There he collapses against the nearest wall, mind racing with a thousand worried thoughts and questions. But he knows when you’re ready, you’ll open up.

… Well, that had been the plan until he’d spotted the marks on your wrist.

His fingers skitter along your skin as they come to snap up your forearm for close inspection, and you flinch at his touch. “What the fuck happened?” Peter breathes out, barely remembering to keep his cool.

There’s still a glossiness to your eyes, a prominent redness seeped into the once whites, and they hurt like a bitch. But there are no more tears, not even as your stare chases Peter’s, noticing the blinding rage simmering there.

“It doesn’t matter.” You had sighed.

“Your arm looks like it’s been used as someone’s personal punching bag – of course it fucking matters.”

You ignore his anger, waves of exhaustion flooding through you, cuddling up to Peter’s chest. A pacified sigh slips passed your teeth when your mouth falls open, the warmth of his arms like being swaddled up in a fuzzy blanket. You’re better; you feel safe again now that he’s here by your side.

Roy’s quite literally the last thing you want to talk about though, and in an effort to evade that very topic, you ask the only other thing you can think of. Something you were aching to know about anyway.

“Why did you run off?”

Peter tenses beneath you at the question, throat constricting with a Sahara dryness. A pregnant silence follows soon after, yet you’re more than willing to wait for his answer. As long as you can remain here, huddled in his lap with your back pressed up against his firm chest ― you’re willing to wait an eternity.

But it doesn’t take very long for him to respond: “That’s not important right now.”

With a shake of your head, you spin around between his legs and look Peter dead in the eye. He winces at the sight of the drying tracks on your cheeks. Then you cup his jaw, feeling the soft skin of his baby face.

“It’s more important to me.” You grumble.

“Well, it’s not to me. Now, please, tell me what happened tonight.”

You don’t like that idea. Not really. Not one bit. Your forehead creases, brows knitted together in disgruntlement. Peter’s hot breath fans down your cheeks then. His palms and fingers are pressed into your lower back in a comforting position.

“Fine. I’ll tell you what went down, if you spill why you were so upset.”

There you go again, trapping him in inescapable corners.

How is he supposed to tell you that when he cracks a joke, he always looks at you first to see if you’re laughing too? How can Peter admit that he’s memorized every word to every song you’ve ever claimed as your favorite?

How is he going to break down and tell you that the reason he ran off tonight was because he couldn’t stand to see you with another guy – because he’s been in love with you since freshman year?

But the need to make sure you’re okay overpowers his fear. That’s how.

Ever so hesitantly, he nods, and if you hadn’t been paying intense attention to every micro expression he makes – every flinch of his lips, to every blink or avoidance of your gaze – than you would have missed it. But he’s agreed, which means it’s your turn now to avert your eyes from his, letting your stare fall to your hands instead as they fiddle within your lap.

Peter’s own fingers keep busy by rubbing circles on your lower back, his focus entirely on you.

“Well, this stupid mother fucking asshole didn’t like that I wasn’t interested in him and he got a bit rough at the party. But, er, my friend Daniel stepped in and kicked the dick out. That’s it, really.”

There’s a sharp pain that pierces Peter’s chest as he listens to you, hanging off your every word. _He should have been there_.

You don’t miss the way his arms stiffen around you, an unreadable but dangerous expression on your best friend’s face. “Hey, it’s alright.” You coo then, brushing back the hairs behind his ears as you caress his cheek.

“It’s not alright. Not really. I should have been there.”

“You couldn’t have known. Besides, I’m alright – see?” You stick your tongue out in a goofy face to prove your point, showing him that you’re feeling a million times better now. The stale yellow ceiling lights reflect against those onyx orbs of his, warming his pale skin.

But Peter still looks unsure.

You wrap him up into a tight hug. Peter sucks in a sharp breath, nose buried into your hair and he inhales your scent like a breath of relief. You still smell like rain mixed with your pineapple body spray. He feels the water burn within his eyes before he furiously blinks the tears back, jaw slack as an ugly feeling consumes him.

_He should have been there._

“Peter, don’t beat yourself up for this. It’s not your fault. It never is.”

He’d like to disagree with that – fight that statement tooth and nail – but he doesn’t have it in him to. So instead, he squeezes you tighter, as if that would convey his promise of a hundred oaths to keep you safe forever. He won’t make the same mistakes again.

When you hear a sniffle, you pull away some, eyes flitting about to take in Peter’s saddened state. But he’s covered up his guilt with a weary smile. Before you can say anything else, he leans back against the wall then, head tilted towards the ceiling.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“But I am.”

“I know.”

He refuses to meet your ever watchful gaze when he speaks up again, Adams apple dipping sharply. “I guess it’s my turn.”

Peter takes his bottom lip between his teeth. While he begins to absently fiddle with the silver rings on his fingers, twisting and turning them in thought. “Okay,” He starts once more, only to swallow harshly. It’s clear that whatever he’s supposed to tell you is really hard on him, and part of you wonders if you should just let him keep his secrets. For his sanity’s sake.

“Look, Pete, you don’t have to –“

He cuts you off with a shake of his head. “No, no. I promised.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” For a brief moment, a dimpled smile slips onto his face. It’s short-lived and breathy, but pretty all the same. “I just – I don’t know – when I saw you with that guy … I just. I don’t know …”

“It’s funny, really.” Peter mumbles. “The way you make me feel.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know my favorite Pink Floyd song?”

“ _Take it back_?”

He nods, barely. “Yeah. That one.” His voice is frail. Each word sounds like it’s crumbling apart at the tip of his tongue. “That’s how you make me feel.”

When you spring up and onto your feet then, Peter’s taken aback. He blows a stray lock of hair from out of his eyes before you latch onto his hand, forcing him to stand with you.

This isn’t really the reaction he had expected upon confessing to you – even if he hadn’t been the most clear when going about it. But the two of you both know the lyrics to that song like the palms of your hands.So why don’t you just get _it_?

He deflates a little at the thought that you really hadn’t gotten the message and are still just as oblivious to his feelings as you had been before. Yet, when you grin over your shoulder at him, thumb brushing over his; Peter finds himself echoing your smile, followed by a deep chuckle.

“Where we headed to, (Y/n)?”

“Just wait and see, Silver.” Peter loved it when you called him that.

You wander into the living room, fingers releasing his before you make your way across the room. The record player you had bought yourself for your twenty-first birthday sits on a table, a shelf of prized records organized by color behind it.

A familiar tune is smothered against your tongue in a hum as your hand hovers over the albums in search of one in particular. _The Division Bell_ , you place the black disk onto the machine and set things up.

Peter’s stood idly in the middle of the room, staring down at his shoes against the hard wood. The realization that he’d forgotten to take them off only now setting in. The moment a familiar strum of a guitar fills the room, though, his head snaps upwards. Wide eyes immediately in search for you.

You’re stood before him now, hands held behind your back, hope morphing your features. Peter’s spine has gone straighter than a pole, hesitance cursing the corners of his mouth as he fights back a smile.

“ _Her love rains down on me as easy as the breeze._

_I listen to her breathing it sounds like the waves on the sea._ ”

This is how Peter feels about you. The thought comes with a surge of confidence, your body pressing ever nearer to his. With every bit of tenderness you can muster; you reach for his hand again.

Peter watches as you begin to sway your hips to the music. The trail of your fingertips, touch ghosting along his hips, forces a rise of goosebumps to shudder through him. But with your (e/c) orbs fixed on him like this – with emotions like a love song held there – he wouldn’t give this moment up for the world.

On instinct, he brings his arms up and around you. From there, the two of you begin to dance to “Take It Back” by Pink Floyd, the irenic strummings of Gilmour to guide you.

Your hands smooth over the expanse of Pete’s chest, finding position resting around his neck. And you take another step closer, till your breaths mix as one and the curve of your bodies mold together.

Glancing towards him for just a second, you took in the desperate look in his eyes, something so attached, so vulnerable that it almost hurts to see. A little smile twitched at his lips as soon as you met his eyes, some soft whisper of hope shining through. He thinks the wait is finally over.

“Peter?” You hum, lowering your head to his shoulder. His cheek rests comfortably against yours while the two of you rock absently to the music, not trying to be good at this. But trying to make this night last forever, all the same.

“Yeah?”

“This is my favorite song, too.”

Peter lazily twirls you around. “Really? Why?”

With an innocent tilt of your head the tip of your nose brushes against his. “Because it reminds me of you.”

“Hey,” His lips flub out in a pout. But you don’t miss the way he audibly gulps at that. “That was supposed to be my line.”

When you roll your eyes, Peter snorts, reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. His knuckle smoothes over your skin, a fondness found in everything he does as he takes you in; still pressed flush against him. The song’s almost coming to an end now, like the ticking of a clock reminding you to hurry up.

_This is it_ – you exhale through a timeless smile – _you can do this._

“Silver?” Like instinct, and the way it always does whenever you use his nickname; Peter’s heart skips a beat, entire body melting in your arms. The lights in the livingroom are dim, swaying shadows cast on gold-lit walls. The back of your calf brushes up against the edge of the couch.

“Yeah?” Peter gulps.

“Kiss me.”

A part of Peter is tempted to just tease you. To lean forward and press a peck to the tip of your nose, or your cheek, or forehead. All of which would get a rise out of you like no other. But a larger part of him is just so desperate to live out his daydreams by capturing your mouth with his and not breaking apart till you absolutely have to.

Who said he had to choose, though?

When Peter presses a kiss to your nose, you make a face. Tin lifted upwards, one brow cocked, and nose scrunched up as you glare at him with clear confusion. “That’s now what I meant –“

His lips chase yours, the remnants of liquor bitter against his tongue, and yet he desperately wants more. Your fingers curl at the base of his neck, the hairs there soft against your skin; eyes fluttering blissfully shut at once.

His mouth moves against your own, somehow both sweet and rough all at once. Fingers entangling themselves within your hair as you pull him impossibly closer by the collar of his shirt.

Peter kisses you with no uncertainty, with the kind of quiet confidence that makes your limbs feel like jelly. When he breaks into a grin the air leaves your lungs; deepening the kiss until the world felt utterly timeless. 

“ _She can take it back, she will take it back someday_ ” The lyrics sang – but you knew you never would.


End file.
